Dark Angel (Gentlemen of the Order 4)

“Isn’t that up to you?”

Her brazen comment left him grinning. “I could make you come now.”

“I’d rather you strip me bare when you do.”

With it being a little less than a mile to Shoreditch, it was better to focus on the case and not the sparks of sexual tension that would have them writhing on the seat, desperate for physical contact.

“How do you feel about Mr Coulter?” She had found his story credible. When giving his account, she’d seen the sensitive man, not the pleasure-hungry rake. “Do you believe his tale?”

“I want to believe him. His story fits with everything we’ve learned so far, but I cannot find it within myself to trust him.”

“No, you find it hard to trust anyone other than your friends at

the Order.”

“And you,” he added quickly. “I trust you, Beatrice.”

Oh, Lord! The need to touch him, kiss him, devour every aspect of his being came upon her again. She had spent the morning struggling to think of anything but how wonderful it felt to hold him inside her body, to feel full with Dante D’Angelo.

But they spent all their time journeying from one place to another, questioning suspects, never having a chance to examine whether this unique friendship had a future.

“You’re the only person I trust, Dante.”

The only person in the world she loved.

* * *

The smell hit Beatrice first. Having spent months living in a tavern in a grim part of town, one would think she’d be accustomed to the stench of stale sweat and musty clothes, to a room so thick with tobacco smoke it irritated the throat.

Mrs Crockett puffed on her pipe and continued to choke them with her filthy habit. “Diamond ring? Diamond ring!” She cackled, the shrill sound enough to send birds scattering. “Wait! Let me nip upstairs and search through my jewels, see if I’ve misplaced the bugger.”

Dante slapped the receipt on the counter. “It quite clearly states that he pawned a diamond ring at Crockett’s Emporium, Holywell Lane, Shoreditch. You will check your records, and you will do so now, madam.”

The woman with thinning grey hair drew her black shawl around her shoulders and appeared suddenly frailer than when she’d hurried to greet them at the door.

“I’ve got used petticoats, plates and pots, will give you a shillin’ a piece if you have any spare, but I ain’t never had the funds to give a loan against a diamond ring.” Mrs Crockett glanced at the note. “Maybe when I marry that sultan who’s asked for my hand, things might be different.”

Another loud cackle made Beatrice wince. “A man is dead, Mrs Crockett—stabbed to death in the street—and this note was on his person. Perhaps he had no intention of recovering the ring. Probably had a gaming debt to settle and so pawned his mother’s precious jewels.”

“I hear you, dearie. But I told you. I ain’t loaned against a diamond ring.” She squinted and looked at the chitty. “Besides, two months is the maximum loan term, not four.”

Beatrice sensed Dante’s anger bubbling hot like lava. Soon it would erupt, spill over and destroy everything in its wake. She glanced at him. A warning to approach the matter from a different angle.

“Madam,” he began calmly, having heard her silent plea, “my parents were murdered in front of me when I was eight years old. I’ve spent a lifetime searching for the man who shot a woman while she clutched her child’s hand.” He paused, closed his eyes briefly. “So I ask you, I beg you, please search your records and put me out of my misery.”

Mrs Crockett considered the man at the counter. Her gaze drifted over the elegant cut of his coat. “Fate’s cruel hand reaches far and wide. Even touches the nobility.”

“We all have a tragic tale to tell, Mrs Crockett. Everyone faces their own form of hardship.” He gestured to Beatrice. “My colleague found herself destitute. For her, solving this case is a matter of survival.”

Mrs Crockett took another puff on her pipe and then placed it on the counter. “A sad tale is like a blade to the heart. Next, you’ll tell me she has three little mites who haven’t eaten for days.” Tutting to herself, she shuffled towards an open door at the back of the shop and called, “Fetch me the ledgers for June and July.”

A muffled voice echoed from the back room.

“Bring them to the counter. Lazy mare. They’re too heavy for me to carry.” Muttering under her breath, Mrs Crockett returned to reclaim her pipe. “Some of these young uns don’t know the meanin’ of hard work. Spends all day preenin’ herself, struttin’ about the place like the world owes her a livin’.”

A young woman appeared, head bowed, her curly sable locks hanging loose, obscuring her face. She carried two thin books a child could have managed, placed them down on the grimy oak surface, but avoided making eye contact.

“What’s the matter with you, girl? Crick in the neck?”